Dead Hearts
by Queens of the Stormlands
Summary: Welcome to the 42nd Hunger Games, from the eyes of two very different teenagers. Silken Moray, a level-headed girl from District 1 who struggles to conceal her district partner's potentially lethal secret. Quinn Viner, a somewhat callous boy from District 10 trying to escape a web of manipulation. Will either manage to survive what awaits them in the arena?


**Chapter One: Only Human**

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**A/N: Hi guys, so this is our first attempt at a joint story...Maddie will be writing from Silken's perspective and Ryder will be writing from Quinn's. Hope you enjoy!**

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**Silken Moray – District 1**

I have a plan. Some might call it insidious. Others might say it's downright selfish, spiteful even. But the thing is, I've kind of given up on caring about what other people think. That's why I wake up at the crack of dawn, showering and dressing before the rest of my family are even awake. As I pull the brush through my auburn hair, anger giving way to the impatient tearing through of snarls, I realise that I haven't forgotten the three other people who still lie sleeping soundly. They have no idea I know of a deception fifteen years in the making.

"You're up early." That's the response I get when I hammer on the door of my best friend, Tiara. She knows I've been surly lately. She doesn't know why. Neither does she know what I have planned. Today's a very special day – Reaping Day, if we're getting precise. I don't normally make decisions based off anything other than logic and facts, but sometimes the beast gets angry when people rattle its cage and tauntingly wave their fingers through the bars, begging for them to be bitten off.

"I couldn't stick it out at home any longer," I mutter, folding my arms over my chest.

"I get what you mean," Tiara says sympathetically, although she really doesn't. "Is it your sister again?"

My sister. Oh man, I could laugh so hard at that. Really, I mean, what a joke. I should have seen it earlier, but I guess I wasn't exactly looking for the signs. My sister Retra, who'll be thirty years old next year. The only thing is, she's not my sister. I'd been lied to my entire life. Retra is my mother, probably knocked up by some random guy she slept with and never saw again. The only reason I know is because I overheard my parents – _grandparents_ – discussing with Retra whether she wanted to tell me when I turned sixteen. Well, I'm not sixteen for another few months, but I'm already away that everything I thought I knew is a lie.

"I guess," I reply vaguely.

Tiara pats my shoulder. "It's possible you're also worrying about the reaping. Come on, I'll get you some nice greasy bacon and eggs."

Most people would cringe at the thought of all that oil and fat, but not me. I'm the sort of person who seems to have a stomach made of stone. I wolf down eggs and bacon as Tiara picks fussily at her food. She doesn't have the hunger that I do, the determination. You see here in District 1, it's about how fast you are, how quick your reflexes are. When the name of the tribute is called, the volunteers run for the stage, like rats towards scraps of food. The first one to get there wins. I'm fast, very fast.

After breakfast, Tiara fixes my hair into a braid, and I return the favour by tying hers into a ponytail. Tiara has always been vain about her appearance. She's stunning and she knows it. Her main vanity is her hair, dark and shiny and smooth. In comparison, there's me, with hair the colour of dried blood and a smattering of freckles across my face. Not what you'd call a great beauty, but eventually Tiara's beauty will fade, like a flower wilting after the spring.

The procession into the courtyard is in solemn silence, but this is dictated more by tradition than seriousness itself. In reality, many of those who are of reaping age are bubbling with excitement, just waiting for the chance to volunteer. The name of the tribute will be read out, and if they don't head up to the stage, the race will begin. I file into my place beside Tiara. I know that she doesn't want to be picked out. She's probably worried that she'd ruined her hair in the arena. I force back a snicker.

"Welcome, ladies and gentlemen!" This year's escort is all smiles, and I refrain from rolling my eyes. The overly peppy ones get on my nerves. Sure, some kids are enthusiastic about the Games, but this escort is going to act like this is a picnic instead of an event during which twenty-three people will be violently killed. Her hair is a shocking shade of blue that should be made illegal. "My name is Cerise and I'm your escort this year."

I can see the young man who will be the mentor of this year's tributes, 37th Hunger Games Victor Rhindal Matheson. He's in his early twenties and half of the girls in our district are in love with him, obsessing over his honey-blonde hair and blue-green eyes. Sure, he's tall and muscular, but he's also so serious that I don't think I've ever seen him crack a smile. Hardly the sort of guy I'd consider swooning over.

I find myself zoning in and out as Cerise starts rambling on about the Dark Days and the bombing of District 13 – I mean really, who _cares_? It all happened years ago now. The Games are just as much of a show of the Capitol's power as they are a means of exacting revenge on the districts. I stifle a yawn, and Tiara glowers at me, possibly the only person who is actually paying attention. Maybe she just likes Cerise's hair.

"Now for the lucky boy and girl," Cerise chirps, and that's when I zone back in and start really paying attention, because I know that once the name is called, I have to take my chance. I hear Cerise's heels clicking across as she reaches into the glass bowl. She clears her throat. "Kailey Benedict."

I have no clue who Kailey is, but my heart is racing as I frantically search around for any signs of movement. Finding none, I'm off like a shotgun, just like several other girls. One of them is closer to the front than me, but I sprint at her and shove her roughly aside. No one is going to spoil this for me. It's _my_ moment and I won't risk anyone taking this away from me. It's only when I collapse on the stone steps, skinning my knees in the process, that I realise I actually did get there first.

"What's your name?" Cerise inquires as I push myself to my feet, panting from exertion.

"Silken Moray," I breathe into the microphone, and at the back of the crowd, I can distinctly see my mother, Retra, tensing in complete shock. I can't help but smile. They keep secrets from me, and I keep mine from them. Besides, what's family worth when they've all been lying about what they are? I was angry at them for hiding things, and I made my choice – I took the chance to shine.

"Now for the boy!" Cerise saunters over to the other glass bowl, and I find my eyes scanning the crowd. I don't really associate with many of the boys my own age, as I see them as immature and juvenile. Cerise draws the slip, and District 1 holds its breath. "Dex Rhodes!"

There's movement down the back where the eighteen-year-olds are standing. A boy with golden blonde hair and olive skin steps out, raising his chin determinedly. I remember Dex a little. He has an identical twin, who I think is called Ace. This twin grabs Dex's shoulder, attempting to pull him back.

"No! Don't do it!"

Dex shrugs Ace off and strides towards the front. He's tall, over six feet, easily the kind of guy who – like Rhindal – girls could obsess over. He looks younger than his age, but I think that's because he has very boyish features. Cerise looks pleased and she turns back to me, as though she's just remembered I still exist.

"Tributes, shake hands."

I'm expecting that Dex will try and crush my fingers when he takes my hand, but although his grip is firm, he surprisingly chooses not to display his strength. He probably thinks it's already obvious. After all, he's eighteen and a big guy, while I'm three years younger and barely scraping five foot six. I can see Ace still visibly fuming down the back. Why is that? Is he angry, thinking that Dex took what might have been his chance, or is this his way of conveying that he's upset about his brother's possible fate?

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I fold my arms as Retra hurries into the waiting room. I don't have long with her, but I wish that I didn't have any time at all. I remain stiff as a board in her arms as she hugs me close, pressing her face into my hair. When she pulls back, her blue eyes are glittering with a mixture of anger and concern.

"Why did you do that, Silken?" she demands, shaking me by the shoulders. "Why did you volunteer?"

I wrench out of her grasp and draw my hand back, before slapping her across the face. I'm not exactly what one would call physically strong, but my years of training mean that I'm not what anyone would be able to call weak. Retra staggers, pressing a hand to the red mark on her cheek as I watch in vicious satisfaction. She had that coming. I still haven't forgiven her, or my grandparents, for keeping me in the dark. Don't I deserve to know my parentage?

"You know you deserved that," I snap at her, "How long did you think you could keep it hidden? Were you actually ever going to tell me?"

Retra looks confused. "Silk, what are you talking about?"

"I'm not your sister!" I snarl at her, clenching my hands into fists. "I'm your _daughter_. Did you think that I would never find out?"

Horror contorts Retra's features. I can't help but relish in her astonishment. She probably took me for an idiot, thinking that I was never going to discover her little secret – me. I'm still fuming. Even the fact that I'm participating in the Games doesn't bring me any real satisfaction. It was just to shock Retra, and my grandparents. To show them that I hold surprises in me as well.

"How…how did you…?"

"I overheard you talking to our 'parents'," I say the last word with heavy sarcasm. "I was nothing but a little accident. How old were you again, fourteen? Slut."

She flinches at the word 'slut'. "You don't understand. Silken…"

"You're right, I don't." I cut her off sharply, folding my arms over my chest once more. "And I have no intention of trying to. Leave me alone, Retra. You might have given birth to me, but you're no more my mother than I am a boy."

Retra looks stung by my words, but then her face closes, her eyes growing hard. She turns on her heel and marches out. The Peacekeepers enter as she exits, and I draw myself up to full height, knowing that it's time to leave the district. Do I regret that I'm leaving everything behind? No, because my family is full of liars. I intend to win these Games, and when I do – when, not if – I'll have a nice little house in the Victor's Village, where I'll never have to see them again.

I can see Dex and Ace talking in whispers. It's so hard to tell who is who, but I remember that Dex was wearing a green shirt when he walked up, so that must be Ace in the blue. After a moment Ace nods curtly and draws back. Dex rakes a hand through his hair, walking over towards where Rhindal stands attempting to ignore Cerise's excitable chattering.

"You two will do." Rhindal's eyes rake over us critically. "Not too young. Reasonably fit. You'll survive the bloodbath at least."

"That's encouraging," Dex mutters under his breath, earning a cold look from Rhindal which prompts him to lapse into silence.

"It's time to go to the station," Cerise tosses back her blue hair, smiling flirtatiously at Rhindal who rolls his eyes. "Rhindal will tell you two everything you need to know about the Games once we're on the train, isn't that right, sweetheart?"

"Whatever you say, Cerise," Rhindal mumbles.

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**Quinn Viner- District 10**

On the rare occasions outside of the Hunger Games in which the Capitol graces us with their televised presence, District 10 is the forgotten one. We're just that backwards little District who's not as fundamentally fucked up as 11 and 12. You can be the biggest underdog-loving Hunger Games freak in all the Capitol and you'll still forget about poor old 10, sleeping with the pigs in winter because no third rate leftovers from 8 will ever keep you as warm as something that spends its day rolling in its own shit.

They tell us on the TV that we get more tessera the more we work, launching us ahead of holes like 12 where the kids have never known what it's like to spend a summer without your head touching a pillow, to be sent to muster sheep for twelve hours a day before you've hit your fifth birthday. They might not have food but they've got shelter, sleep and a better family than Maurice the rooster and his endless brood.

I'd hazard a guess that I last had time to settle down and have a proper cooked meal over three months ago. Raw eggs are really giving me the shits, and I don't just mean that on an emotional level. Maybe our industriousness gets us a few more shreds of wheat in the tessera but I couldn't give less of a damn about tessera when it all goes to Hutch and my mother while I'm eating stolen eggs.

They complain that they're not getting enough tessera and then mother still stays married to Hutch the useless slob. He may be my stepfather but if he were a horse I'd have shot him. A bull's kick to the leg turned him lame years ago and even in 16 years with my mother he's too useless to sire more children. Aside from the ponces in bed with the Capitol, I've never seen a family living solo on a farm with less than four kids and yet mother won't ditch the useless bastard even though I'm hungry, cold and bloody tired.

Once I mentioned the possibility of shooting him to my mother and she stole my key to the gun closet, wouldn't even accept logic when I pointed out that he was just waiting to be meat that even the Capitol wouldn't take from us. Maybe if I get reaped they'll lose the farm and send him to the knackers.

None of this worries me though, all that matters is living life day to day. Feed the cows, feed the chickens and steal their babies, feed the pigs, brush the horse, sheer the sheep then kill them all and start again. Just one day at a time. I don't care about the fact that I'm hungry. That's okay. I don't care that my wrist won't heal. That's okay. It doesn't matter that I could be Reaped tomorrow. I'm okay with that. Feed the animals. Kill some of them. That's it. Nothing is getting to me, I can't _let it_ get to me.

There's nothing wrong. Nothing.

Just breathe in- and stop breathing in because I'm in the cowshed- and breathe out. Everything is fine. Another six hours and it'll be the reaping. Just six... I've already had four hours sleep, I don't need any more.

I'm still telling myself that I don't need sleep when I find myself waking up on top of Bessie the cow and promptly vomiting in their food. As if finding yourself sleeping in a tin shed mostly filled with shit wasn't bad enough, I can hear the bell tolling in the train station. Not just the 'the train is arriving in the station' bell but the 'the train has left, you're fucked' bell.

This is how I end up arriving to the Reapings half an hour late dressed in work clothes and covered in a toxic combination of cow shit and vomit. What can I say, I'm a people pleaser. Still at least this year I don't still have a scythe buried in my shoulder and most of the vomit has managed to stay out of my hair.

If nothing else I'm a creature of habit although to be honest the habit of being horrendously late to Reapings is one I'd rather lose. I'm not exactly Malaria's favourite member of District 10 even when I'm not sprinting in during her precious speech. It's not as though I'm a rebel or an enemy to the Capitol, it's just that pissing her off is also on the list of 'bad habits that will probably result in my death.' Ever since my first Reaping we've had a long and combative history. Such as the time I stood on the hem of her pants. In a mud puddle. Causing her to trip. And tear open the crotch of said pants. Or that time she heard me call her Malaria. Probably also that time when I spat a tooth onto her shoe. I was trying to aim for the ground. Mostly.

"Now to choose the boy in the most fabulous Reaping ceremony in District 10 hosted by me, Myleria Candis!" Malaria's jaunty hand gestures, constant mentions of her own name and sickly sweet voice suggest that she's just another vapid Capitolite who lives in a world made of candy floss and rainbows but I know for sure there's a demonic bitch underneath that molasses facade.

The proof is in the revoltingly sweet but ultimately bitter pudding as Myleria's eyes narrow, "What do we have here? Is this a volunteer running in so early?"

My eyes flicker around the assembled crowd in desperation, yet it serves mostly to prove that the square is remarkably empty of sprinting volunteers and to reveal a remarkably large number of people looking at me with a mixture of pity and confusion. To them this is an extreme example of Capitol stupidity, confusing a lost lamb coming late to the 'party' with a volunteer sending themself to the abattoir. As the little lamb I can see all too clearly that this is the Capitol's sickly sweet death trap catching a stray fly.

You'd think if she wanted to stitch me up in the Reapings she would've at least done it in a year when I excreted bodily fluids onto her, not just wait for a year when I thought I was safe from the backlash of my own stupidity. Yet Malaria was lying in wait all along, preparing to leap when I was utterly unprepared.

Despite it all, despite the dozen guns aimed at my head, even as a sea of children part to allow me to walk to my doom and although I've spent seventeen years telling myself that if I shut up and hold it in it won't hurt me, I can't help but call in indignation, "That's not fucking fair! I didn't volunteer by walking in late."

Hardly an awe-inspiring speech against the blood-fuelled machine that is the Capitol, but it's enough to part the youth-filled seas until they pack against the edge of the square. It's me against the world and they're scoring all the points.

For all her faults, Malaria is a skilled enough escort that this little scene doesn't sway her at all. She simply smiles like we're sharing a joke and holds up a paper slip and suddenly I can calm the rage again, my insides freezing so suddenly that I fear they'll never regain normality.

"Is your name Quinn Viner?" she asks, as though we were passing in the street and I have the answer as to how it's taken her so many years to finally catch me out for the whole tooth thing when I was seven; it's taken her this long to find me, and now that she has there's no escape.

I don't have to answer her question to start the trek up to the stage, trailed by the rejoining of the faceless crowd of kids too spineless to come to my rescue as I prepare to die for a torn dress and a broken tooth. The longer I turn from them the more I can keep the anger controlled, to tell myself that they had no choice but to obey Malaria's whims.

There's nothing left for me in District 10, might as well be me going to my death rather than someone who'll one day run a factory or own a farm. I've survived well enough on my own at home; I can do the same in the games. Just keep it together. I'm not angry, I'm not scared. I just have to keep a level head and I will be fine. They other tributes are nothing more than animals, I've taken a thousand to the slaughter and I can take a dozen more. It'll be fine. They bleed like animals. Squeal like animals. Have families like animals.

No.

Bleed like animals.

Die like animals.

That's all that they are and I'll be fine. I don't have to be scared; their knives hurt me no more than a bull's horn. I'm not scared.

I'll be fine.

But Hayley won't.

The name filters into my already jumbled thoughts as my eyes suddenly snap open to face the audience who have nothing to do with my death. They part to let my only friend in this world through, but they don't have a choice.

Hayley Asture, the one person who ever gave a damn about the lonely farm boy on the outskirts of a forgotten district. I don't blame them for not caring though, I can still protect her on my own. It'll be fine.

My mind is filled with a thousand reassurances, a blanket of 'fine' that covers anything else trying to break through the surface. I force a smile onto my face as Malaria lifts our hands in the air as though we've won anything but a ticket to our deaths. I avoid her eyes as I stare into the audience, eyes searching for two people I know I won't find. Apparently even the possibility of your son's death can't always stem your apathy because the crowd is missing two faces I barely even remember.

It shouldn't be a surprise that the visiting room is empty of everything but the cloying stench of perfume and underuse. I'd always known that my family had forgotten me through the course of several years leaving me alone to tend to a farm meant for a District 10 sized family but their absence still stings as I sit alone on the sofa meant for a grieving family.

I have a few minutes until I'll be taken to my death and yet I'm forced to spend them sitting alone and ruminating about the fact that I'll never be able to draw strength from a waiting family. Is it really too much to ask them to give a shit about the son who's been working for years to give them a life that they'd be comfortable with?

Your last memories of home should be something worth remembering, something to fight for when you're in the arena and the whole world seems lost. I guess that it's an accurate snapshot of home at least, but sometimes even Quinn the stoic wants more than historical accuracy.

I tell myself again that I don't care, but I'm starting to think that even I don't believe me.


End file.
